Dead Wrong: Halifax's unsolved murders

In at least 48 cases, a killer has not been brought to justice, giving Halifax one of the highest unsolved murder rates in the country. A former murder investigator says incompetence and indifference among police department brass are to blame.

OK, boys...Pack it up...Back to what you were doing...We're
done here...

Tom Martin had known it was coming. Call it his experience
or---perhaps, more to the point---his boss's lack of experience.
Whatever, Martin had guessed this morning's outcome even before Bill
Hollis, the staff sergeant in charge of major crimes, descended from
the department's executive offices to personally deliver the
message.

The Halifax Regional Police task force set up to re-examine the
August 28, 1999, murder of Jason MacCullough was being
disbanded.

Pack it up...Back to what you were doing...

It was the summer of 2005. The re-investigation had begun the year
before after an informant had come forward with new information about
what happened in the park off Pinecrest Drive the night Jason
MacCullough was murdered, information the investigators had since
"qualified" independently. Was this the break they needed to finally
close the five-year-old murder investigation?

They desperately wanted to. Jason was what cops like to call a "pure
victim:" a straight-arrow 19-year-old kid. He shovelled snow for the
elderly, volunteered with the local Boys' and Girls' Club. He'd just
ended up in the wrong park at the wrong, late hour on a hot, wet summer
night.

Investigators believed they knew who'd murdered Jason. The problem
was they hadn't been able to prove it, not to the
beyond-a-reasonable-doubt certainty the courts rightly required. Maybe
this witness carried the key to unlock a conviction. Days after the
witness came forward, chief of police Frank Beazley authorized setting
up a task force to take another look at the case.

The group included Martin, other members of the department's cold
case unit and officers seconded from regular duties. They were a
"fantastic team. Everyone had a key role. And everyone did their job,"
says Martin. Operating out of a cavernous room in the department's
Gottingen Street headquarters, the group gathered around a
shoved-together collection of tables in the middle of the room each
morning, and sometimes again in the afternoons. They discussed and
dissected what they'd learned that day, then figured out what to do
next.

During its re-investigation, the task force progressed beyond the
thin gruel the informant had to offer, putting together new pieces of
the puzzle of who killed Jason, independent of what the witness told
them. Martin says they were "close, very close, extremely close" to
being able to lay charges.

But then, two days before it was disbanded, investigators caught
their informant toying with truth, "remembering big." The investigators
had to cut him loose. Liars don't make good courtroom witnesses.

It was a blow, but not lethal. Martin says every experienced
investigator knows informants are notoriously unreliable. They're
usually criminals, with deals to make or axes to grind. So you never
depend on an informant alone to make your case. The task force hadn't.
Which was why catching their informant in a lie, Martin believed, was
just another "bump in the road" of their ongoing investigation.

But he wasn't sure their bosses were experienced enough to know
that.

Tom Martin looked around the room. There was disbelief, anger. The
other cops knew this was bullshit. Still, there was no point in
confronting their staff sergeant. The message had come from two floors
above, from deputy chief Chris McNeil, a man who'd never run a murder
investigation.

We're done here...

"You're making a mistake." Martin tried to keep his voice neutral.
He knew he had a reputation for being one of management's "biggest
pains in the ass." He preferred to see himself as a guy "who wasn't
afraid to piss off the bosses" in the interests of solving his case.
Now, he stood just inside the door of McNeil's office and tried to
explain why the deputy chief shouldn't do what he'd already done.

McNeil wasn't listening. He just stared at his computer screen while
Martin made the case for continuing the task force. McNeil didn't look
up. All he said was, "It's done."

The task force was disbanded. Two weeks later, Martin suffered his
first heart attack. He was never able to return to work. In 2008, he
officially retired from the force.

It is a crisp fall morning in 2009. Tom Martin and I are
having breakfast in a booth in a corner of the Athens Restaurant. Two
years before, while he was still on disability, I'd interviewed Martin
for a Coast feature ("The last best hope," August 24, 2006) about his
obsession---even after his heart attack---with solving the city's many
unsolved murder cases.

But he was still a cop then, which meant there were things he
couldn't say. I've come back today to ask about those things, including
his views on why there seem to be so many unsolved murders in
Halifax.

The Halifax Regional Police website currently lists 48 unsolved
homicides, dating from the December 9, 1955, execution-style murder of
Michael Leo Resk to the May 11, 2009, killing of Tanya Jean Brooks, an
aboriginal mother of five.

Forty-eight unsolved homicides? What's that number really mean?

Well, the most recent figures I could find---from the Canadian
Centre for Justice Statistics---compared homicide clearance rates from
1976 to 2005 for Canadian jurisdictions with populations of 150,000 or
more. Halifax ranked 32nd out of 38 police forces with a clearance rate
of just 80.3 percent of 157 homicides. By contrast, the city with the
best clearance rate was London, Ontario, a similar-sized city. London's
clearance rate for 139 murders was 97.8 percent. Even the RCMP, which
investigated 4,713 murders during the same period, solved 91.2 percent
of them.

Although those statistics are dated and include years that were
kinder and gentler for violent crime, more recent numbers make Halifax
look even worse. According to its own figures, HRP's clearance rate for
the 31 murders committed between 2005 and 2008 is just 64.5 per
cent.

Martin pins much of the blame for that on his former department's
senior managers who, he says, lack the training and experience to
effectively manage major criminal investigations.

The department's own website, in fact, touts Frank Beazley's most
significant career accomplishment prior to becoming chief in 2003 as
serving for six years as officer in charge of human resources and
training. His deputy, McNeil---the man who shut down the MacCullough
investigation---is a law school graduate with what the website
describes as "a broad range of policing experience in operations,
communication and automation, and administration."

"Chris McNeil is a smart man," Martin says, "but he's book smart.
He's not investigative smart. There's a difference." He pauses,
considers, points. "Talking to him that day was like talking to that
plant over there."

Tom Martin isn't just any disgruntled ex-cop. By the time he
retired last year, he was the force's most experienced criminal
investigator with more than 500 major case investigations under his
belt, including as lead investigator in 25 murders. In 2001---a year in
which he helped make arrests in two murders, an attempted murder and a
kidnapping, not to mention nailing serial abuser William Shrubsall for
assault and robbery and three sexual assaults, which helped convince a
judge to officially label Shrubsall a dangerous offender---his fellow
cops voted him officer of the year. In 1993, he was investigator of the
year.

In 1999, he helped create a four-level criminal investigator's
course, which he then taught not only to fellow officers but also to
the RCMP and military police.

In addition to training other cops in the art and craft of criminal
investigation, Martin took specialized courses himself, including in
death and crime scene analysis, and cold case investigations---both of
which were jointly offered by the Jacksonville, Florida, Medical
Examiner's Office, the US military and the FBI. (Martin is one of only
two Halifax officers to have taken the cold case course; both are now
retired.)

Experience counts, Martin says, because repetition is how
investigators learn "to fine-tune, to tweak, to attain that magic point
of 'beyond a reasonable doubt.' It's why young cops get partnered up
with experienced ones." And why you need cops with investigative
experience making decisions about investigations.

None of that is to suggest it's easy to solve any crime, let alone
murder. Consider the force's best known 20-years-and-counting missing
person's investigation. Though almost no one expects to find Kimberly
McAndrew alive or doubts she met with foul play, her case is,
ironically, still officially listed as a missing person. That means it
isn't even counted among Halifax's 48 unsolved homicides.

McAndrew's case has involved false leads, informants, fortune
tellers, psychic tipsters, dog bones, well bottoms, too many bodies
that weren't hers, weird suspects who turned out to be just weird,
eyewitnesses who probably weren't, turf wars, a task force, missing
evidence, egos, twists, turns...and there's still no end in sight.

The long version could fill a book; this short version should give
you the flavour of why experience matters.

At 4:20pm on Saturday, August 12, 1989, Kimberly McAndrew, a
19-year-old cashier at the Quinpool Canadian Tire store, punched off
work, walked into the parking lot and...disappeared.

Tom Martin was a young undercover drug squad officer at the time,
but he---like virtually everyone else on the force---pitched in during
the investigation's early stages, in part because McAndrew, like
MacCullough, was a pure victim and, in part, because her father, Cyril,
was a Mountie, a fellow cop.

It was an RCMP informant who first convinced investigators Kimberly
had been abducted by pimps. While the tip had to be pursued, Martin
says, with the benefit of hindsight and experience, it's clear
investigators fixed on it to the exclusion of other possibilities.
"Investigation 101. Don't believe your informant too much."

Or well-meaning, supposed eyewitnesses. One woman insisted she'd
seen Kim in a Penhorn Mall flower shop the day she disappeared. That
tip became so embedded in the investigation it's still on the
department's website as her last sighting.

Martin says that doesn't make sense but believing it again kept
early investigators from considering other possibilities.

In 2004, when Martin finally officially got the McAndrew cold case
file--- "I'd been working it anyway; it was the case everyone wanted to
solve"---his first step was to sit down with Kim's family. "Let's go
back to square one," he told them.

He wanted to know everything about Kim, from her favourite singer
(Bryan Adams) to the fact she was still a small-town girl so nervous of
the big city she would rather go home to her parents in Parrsboro than
stay overnight alone in the Halifax apartment she shared with her
sister.

"This was not a girl who was going to go on a safari to Dartmouth,"
Martin says. Besides, if she wanted to buy flowers---it was her
boyfriend's birthday---there was a flower shop along the most logical
route from work to her apartment. "My instincts and experience tell me
Kim never got out of that parking lot," Martin says today.

But that raises a question. Given Kim's skittishness, wouldn't she
have screamed if someone had tried to abduct her in a parking lot
filled with Saturday afternoon shoppers?

She would have. Unless...

In October 1997, police in Nanaimo, BC---following up on complaints
that a man driving a Pontiac Grand Am with Nova Scotia licence plates
had been posing as a police officer to lure young girls into his
car---arrested former Halifax resident Andrew Paul Johnson. They found
a developmentally challenged 20-year-old woman locked in his car, along
with what police described as a rape kit: pornographic magazines, a
Halloween mask, handcuffs, a meat cleaver, lubricating gel and packing
tape.

Halifax police had been looking for Johnson, too. In 1992, he had
pleaded guilty to confining and sexually assaulting his Halifax
girlfriend. In 1997, he'd been caught masturbating in his car while
watching girls at play in Hammonds Plains. There was a warrant for his
arrest for harassing a 12-year-old Whites Lake girl while posing as a
teen fashion representative. And, shortly before turning up in BC, he
had disappeared from a Dartmouth sexual offender treatment
program---but not before turning in a chilling assignment. Psychiatrist
Joseph Gabriel asked participants in the program to write an essay
about a sexual assault from the point of view of its victim.

Johnson had written his about the rape and murder of Kimberly
McAndrew.

Gabriel notified the Halifax police, who quickly set up a task force
to investigate. Although Martin---busy with several other
investigations---wasn't directly involved with that investigation, he
says its members did a "phenomenal job" putting together the puzzle
pieces of Johnson's life.

Intriguingly, at the time of Kimberly's disappearance, the telephone
directory lists Johnson's girlfriend as living in an apartment in a
complex across from the Canadian Tire parking lot. "If someone had
identified himself to Kim as a police officer," Martin suggests today,
"she---being the daughter of a police officer---might have gone with
him."

The task force uncovered other evidence in its investigation,
too---including some which linked Johnson to other unsolved murders in
Halifax.

On January 1, 1992, a 22-year-old Vancouver woman named Andrea King
had arrived at the Halifax International Airport with dreams of
enrolling at Dalhousie Law School...and disappeared. Her body was found
nearly a year later. During their investigation of Johnson, police
found Andrea's eye shadow compact.

Police sent several pieces of evidence for DNA testing, but the
science wasn't yet sophisticated enough to give them what they needed
to charge Johnson.

Confronted with what they knew, however, investigators hoped Johnson
might confess. By that point, Johnson, who'd pleaded guilty to
abduction charges in the Nanaimo case, was facing a dangerous offender
hearing that could---and did---put him behind bars indefinitely.
Johnson refused to talk to the Halifax investigators.

In May 2001, days after a court in BC declared Johnson a dangerous
offender, HRP disbanded its task force, without explanation---and
without laying any charges. Why?

Three years later, when Martin---now officially a member of the cold
case unit---began his back-to-square-one re-examination of the McAndrew
file, he went looking for a piece of DNA evidence he knew the task
force had collected. Martin hoped advances in testing procedures might
produce a breakthrough. But the evidence was missing. He shakes his
head. "No one could find it."

He also asked the RCMP for a copy of the file from the "unusual"
parallel investigation it had run into McAndrew's disappearance. "I
asked for it, but I never got it." He doesn't know why---"I didn't just
ask once"---but believes there were turf wars left over from when the
local major crimes units merged with the Mounties' squad after
municipal amalgamation in 1996. "Whatever," Martin says. "I never did
get the file."

"From where I sit, in charge of operational policing,"
Chris McNeil begins, "one unsolved murder is too many for me." Though
he says he isn't familiar with the clearance rate statistics I'd asked
him about, the city's deputy police chief says his force's clearance
rate for the past two years---10 of 14 homicides in 2007-08---is a
"very respectable" 70 percent.

"There's always going to be some ex-somebody telling me how I should
do my job better," he says of Martin's criticisms. "But some of the
very cases you're talking about happened at the heyday of when Tommy
and other very experienced investigators were here. They didn't solve
those cases."

And to Martin's point that the department has lost a lot of
experienced investigators in recent years, McNeil sees it as a
positive. "We're a younger force today. There's a whole new energy, and
people are getting opportunities that weren't available to me as a
young officer. And now we've lived through that period of transition. I
have a lot of young but very experienced investigators.

He says he's "not one to look back with rose-coloured glasses. We
will always have unsolved homicides." Many involve bad guys killing bad
guys, and investigators can't break that subculture's code of silence.
Or investigators may be hobbled by "procedural protections" built into
the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. "Things that were done 20 years ago
couldn't be done today." While McNeil doesn't dispute the legitimacy of
some of those new protections, the result is that solving cases has
become "10-fold" more complex than before.

McNeil says financial incentives---the province is offering up to
$50,000 for useful information in a number of cases, including
MacCullough and McAndrew---provide investigators with "another tool"
but, he adds, "the reward system has not led us to solve a single
serious crime so far."

Neither, in truth, has the force's cold case unit. Unveiled amid
much fanfare in 2000, the five-member squad was initially going to
focus on 15 homicides and eight missing persons cases, including
McAndrew. Today, its murder caseload has more than doubled to 34---now
including MacCullough---but no one will say how many officers are
assigned to it. "We don't give information on our deployment numbers,"
HRP spokesperson Brian Palmeter told me. Neither will the department
indicate the unit's budget.

Tom Martin suspects that may be because there's no one besides
sergeant Jeff Clark, the officer nominally in charge, minding the
store. "You need to go out and pound the pavement," he says.
"Re-interview. Re-think. That's how you solve cases. It's about
results. To my knowledge, the cold case unit has not laid one single
criminal charge in nine years. To me, that's unacceptable."

For his part, McNeil says the public may simply expect too much from
cold case units. "I call it the CSI factor. People think you
find a piece of forensic evidence and, 40 minutes later, case solved.
There's no panacea like that." Even if a cold case investigator finds
new evidence worth pursuing, he adds, the department then has to put
together a "resource-intense" task force like those in the MacCullough
and McAndrew cases.

"There's always a challenge deciding which ones you work on and
which ones...there's no point in pulling off the shelf," McNeil
acknowledges. "It's not like you're ever guaranteed results but I have
to believe there's something here that can be pursued and that there's
a likelihood that this is going to produce results." Or else?

OK,
boys...Pack it up...Back to what you were doing...We're done
here...

When I ask Tom Martin about McNeil's argument that some of
what are today's unsolved murders occurred on his watch, Martin is
quick to fire back. "Investigators," he says, "can only do what their
bosses let them do. Investigators didn't shut down the MacCullough
investigation. The deputy chief did."

As for being an ex-somebody, Martin says, "I'm an ex-somebody with
experience."

He says McNeil is a "micro-manager" who makes critical decisions
about cases "even though he has never been involved in a major
investigation himself." Martin adds that other key players in the chain
of command---superintendent Mike Burns and staff sergeant Frank
Chambers---have "little or no" investigative experience either. He
shakes his head. "These are the bosses makings the decisions on these
cases."

One more example. On January 6, 2003, 61-year-old businessman Larry
Rhynold died during a mysterious fire in what news accounts at the time
described as his "expensive, plantation-style home" in the city's south
end. Rhynold, who had been through a messy divorce, faced myriad
"financial, legal and personal troubles." Days before the fire, friends
say, he'd been beaten up by two men outside his own home. Within days,
fire investigators concluded the blaze had been deliberately set.

After weeks of on-scene investigation, witness interviews and
forensic analysis, police investigators ruled the incident a homicide.
The brass disagreed.

"I argued with staff sergeant Frank Chambers for weeks trying to
prove to him that this was a homicide," Martin says. "The department's
policy is that every death is to be treated as a homicide until proven
otherwise. I was just trying to convince my boss to follow the
department's own policy. In my career, I don't recall Chambers ever
being the lead investigator in a homicide case or even being assigned a
homicide case. But he was my boss."

Eventually, Martin says, he did win his point and Rhynold's death
was designated as a homicide. Shortly after he left the department,
however, the case disappeared from the list of murders. Not listing it
as a murder, of course, makes the department's clearance numbers look
better.

Why is Tom Martin saying all this now? He says he has nothing
to gain by going public, but "I have spent too many years sitting with
the families of murder victims promising them we would do all we could
to solve their case, and that's not happening. The numbers of unsolved
just keep getting higher."